


Five Wishes Mycroft Granted This Christmas, and One He Couldn't

by endlesshorizons



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Bittersweet Ending, Christmas fic, Crack, F/M, Father Christmas - Freeform, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2693258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlesshorizons/pseuds/endlesshorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is Father Christmas, and he takes his job very seriously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Wishes Mycroft Granted This Christmas, and One He Couldn't

**Author's Note:**

> Is it acceptable to post Christmas fics yet? I've had this written for the past month and have been biding my time...
> 
> Enjoy, and happy holidays!

The thing is, Mycroft loves his job, no matter how many jokes Sherlock makes about his diet and his waistline. He had known, ever since he was a young boy, what he was meant to do. As a child, he had revelled in the certainty of that security blanket. Knowing what he was meant for from the very beginning was a blessing and, as he grew up, he shaped every new facet of himself around that steady, inviolable core.

Sherlock doesn't understand it, he knows. For his brother, the family business was all chains and cages, locking him in a wintry, unforgiving prison. Mycroft still remembers the violence of the arguments Sherlock had with their parents, screaming and shouting about the tedium and the enforced cheerfulness and the _bloody elves_.

While Sherlock had been floundering in the world and looking for himself, crashing and burning at alarming intervals, Mycroft had been building his empire. He had mastered the tools of the trade early on, as a teenager, and decided that he was not only going to do his job well, he was going to do it like no one had ever done it before. Just because he loved the family business didn't mean he had to be hemmed in by its old-fashioned traditions and limitations. He found ways to do his job better, more efficiently and more comprehensively. He made sure the relevant parties knew that he was no jolly, harmless and easily-overlooked old man, instead demanding the respect and power the position deserved. The fact that he managed to gain control of the British Government in the process was just an added bonus.

Their parents are retired now, have been for many years as Mycroft rose to take the helms. They take the time to travel the world after so many exhausting years of work, slowing down and taking the long way around instead of skipping from rooftop to rooftop. Neither of the Holmes brothers are typical and in time, their parents have come to accept and even embrace that.

 

Mycroft is not one for leaving things to the last minute, no matter what he is doing, and his Christmas duties are no exception. For eleven months of the year, he watches the world through the lenses of his surveillance system, listening not only to what people wish for but, because he is Mycroft Holmes and overachieving is what he does, also observing what they need. (The Americans who wrote the jingle about Santa Claus knowing whether you're naughty or nice, asleep or awake, had no idea how accurate they were.)

Mycroft doesn't usually make his presence known, doesn't show up with a bag of goodies for your tree and your stockings. He prefers to do his work from afar, to plan the events so meticulously that you don't notice his intervention at all -- although if there are any treats on offer, he isn't above taking a reward for his hard work, either.

December is quickly falling upon them, and London is shining with lights and boughs of holly peek out from every corner. Mycroft sits in his stately, tree- and wreath-less office and makes his lists. Some of them, he sighs as he rests his forehead in the palm of one hand, are harder than others.

 

Molly Hooper, for instance, is simple. Mycroft is aware of how much she has done for his brother over the years and is looking to show his gratitude. But the young woman has life surprisingly well figured out. Friendship, love, family, and career -- it doesn't mean she doesn't make mistakes, that she doesn't get hurt and upset, but she appreciates what she has and knows what she wants without being too caught up in the wanting. Molly is at peace with herself and the world around her.

The only thing that Molly would _really like, please and thank you_ , is to get through Christmas dinner without a single argument, and to snuggle down in front of a fire at the end of the night with a cup of generously spiked eggnog. So Mycroft makes sure that Cousin Linda keeps her job for a few more weeks and sneaks a couple hundred pounds into her brother's bank account without him noticing. Just like that, Christmas dinner passes like a breeze and the family is still warm and laughing as they part for the night. As for the second part of her wish -- well, that was easy enough, too.

 

Gregory Lestrade is looking for a second chance. Even a divorce and custody battle later, he is still a romantic at heart. He doesn't need a fairy tale ending or a dramatic love story with dragon-slaying and theatrical confessions in the rain. All he wants is a smile over breakfast in the mornings, laughter at increasingly cheesy Valentine's Day presents, and the occasional spontaneous snowball fight.

All it takes is a false alarm late on Christmas evening, with the poor Detective Inspector relegated to being on call because his kids are with their mum for this year's holidays. Stashing his blinker lights away and on his way home, he passes a giggly and bright-eyed Molly Hooper and offers her a ride. The ride turns into an invitation for eggnog and, well, you know the rest of the story.

 

The thing is, as long as a person is more or less "nice" -- as in not actively evil -- Mycroft is obligated to grant them a wish. And right now, Mycroft can't think of a person to whom he is less inclined to spread the holiday cheer. Well, there is Moriarty -- who Mycroft knows is, unfortunately, alive but, thankfully, firmly on the "naughty" list.

Incompetent, brain-dead dolt, Mycroft grouses. But then, they're all like that. The people can't ever elect an _intelligent_ Prime Minister, can they?

North Korea is making questionable moves again, and what the Prime Minister wants right now is to _really not have to deal with it_. Well, I don't either, Mycroft thinks. He's already dealing with the fallout from the American election; does he have to do everything?

But then, the other thing the idiot wants has to do with lacy underwear and whips, and Mycroft would rather not think about that either. He sighs, contemplating the dilemma.

Oh fine, he'll take the goddamned North Korean file.

 

Mrs. Hudson is harder. What she wants, more than anything, is to turn back the hands of the clock. She wants to return to the days before a loneliness only occasionally held back by two ridiculous “boys”, cups of tea with her frivolous, gossipy neighbour, and obligatory visits to her obnoxious younger sister. She wants the days when she could play the attention in a room like a guitar, when she was alive amongst other bright stars, burning and testing the limits of where they might explode. The days when she was young and unruly and never spared a thought to the future.

Mycroft thinks long and hard about this one, wondering at all the possible routes he can take. In the end, he calls in a kind-hearted detective inspector who is willing (unlike some) to talk about colours and day-time television with elderly ladies, and sends him to Baker Street. "I don't actually work for you, Mycroft," he grumbles in irritation, but come Boxing Day, he and his new girlfriend are on the doorsteps of number 221, arms around each other and a tin of Christmas biscuits.

The visit turns out to be quite enjoyable for all, with Molly and Mrs. Hudson having a rather spirited conversation about exotic dancing.

 

The next one on the list is the most difficult of all, and it gives him a headache just thinking about it. He considers the possible conditions under which such an occurrence may happen, about the kind of situation he can engineer to achieve the desired result. He comes up empty.

Finally, he gives up and heads to 221 Baker Street.

"Absolutely not," Sherlock says, crossing his arms and sitting back into the leather seat of the car. "This is your job, not mine."

Mycroft sighs. "Please, Sherlock. I’ll owe you a favour."

"You already owe me a dozen."

"You can have Sprinkles here for six months."

("What--!?" the diminutive elf squeals beside him.)

"Nope."

"A year."

"No." A pause. "Actually, you know what I want."

Mycroft groans. "Really, Sherlock? Don't be so childish."

Sherlock just smirks.

"Fine, all right, I'll dress up in a red suit."

"Don't forget the fake beard. And the hat."

"Yes, yes, all right."

"I get to take a photograph."

"You do _not_!"

"Photograph, or no deal."

Mycroft sighs deeply. "Fine, but you can't show it to anyone."

Sherlock appears to consider for a few moments. "Deal."

Just then, the car pulls to a stop and through the one-sided tinted window, Mycroft sees their target walk into view. "Now," he says, swinging open the door.

Sherlock throws a glare at him, but sweeps out of the car. He draws himself to his full height, but can't seem to suppress a shudder. Pulling his jacket tightly around him, he approaches the brown-haired, bearded man carrying two grocery bags.

"Anderson," he acknowledges.

"Oh, hello!" the man looks up, surprised.

"I must warn you, what I am about to do is entirely in the spirit of the season and will never be repeated. And if you ever breathe a word about this to anyone, I will tell everyone what's in your sock drawer."

"OK," the man squeaks, looking terrified. Mycroft sighs. That is not how this is supposed to go.

Outside, Sherlock draws a deep breathe, as if to prepare himself. Finally, he moves forward and gives Philip Anderson a hug.

 

The one wish that Mycroft cannot grant is the one that he wants to, most of all. Standing in a secret holding facility as the moon rises on Christmas Day, he watches through one-way windows as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson unknowingly sit back to back on two sides of the wall separating their cells, wishing for the same things. Which perfectly epitomises their relationship, really, Mycroft thinks.

Outside, snowflakes are gently falling, the scattering of white on the ground glittering with reflected moonlight. Inside, Charles Augustus Magnussen lies dead on a slab, a single bullet hole through his forehead.

Mycroft Holmes puts his head in his hands. A rush of despair washes over him, and in the solitude of the darkened room, Mycroft allows it to overwhelm him for a moment. Then, he takes a steadying breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, feeling the thundering of his heart begin to slow as his diaphragm stretches. He grabs his umbrella and heads towards the small conference room, ready to pull together all the clout he can master.

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear, I have no thoughts one way or the other about the current British prime minister. All references are for the purpose of your entertainment. If you're still unhappy, please lodge a formal complaint with my assistant Sprinkles.


End file.
